by Richard Peck
She hitched a thumb at me, summoning me inside. Alexander cut out. On my way in, Mama gave my arm a painful pinch, to remind me to watch my p’s and q’s during whatever was to follow.
There’s no room in this account to describe the changes inside our place. Mama had not run electricity in, but candles in branching holders replaced the coal-oil lamps. Incense smoldered from brass pots hung from the rafters. And the walls were swagged with cloth in pagan patterns, draped back by tasseled ropes. The effect was of a permanent tent.
Mama worked her jaws in her usual silence while dragging me to the center of the room. Two chairs were drawn up to a card table. Mama’s tarot cards were there too, but not laid out. A lady occupied one of the chairs. Sunlight no longer saw the place, so I was practically nose-to-nose with Miss Dabney before I recognized her.
The egret feather on her Queen Mary hat curled upward, reaching for an incense pot. I was mortified to find her here and suspected plotting behind my back. I also figured money would change hands, and Mama would not be the poorer for it.
There’d been many sudden changes in Bluff City, as I have said, but they did not alter Miss Dabney’s reputation for craziness. Though Lowell Seaforth had dealt kindly with her and Minerva in his write-up, others had not. A young girl such as myself who, among other feats, can skate back in history and return with evidence is a universal wonder. But a crazy old lady with her pantry haunted is another matter. Certain citizens who had once chuckled behind her back would now laugh in her face if she showed it.
Tourists peeled souvenir pickets off her porch. Lower types, likely local, left small dead animals on her threshold. She’d had the law out one time to discourage a cameraman from the Indianapolis Star who’d taken a picture of her kitchen through a back window. But the picture was printed anyhow, and there was no proof of Minerva in it. Near neighbors were organizing to have her sent off to the Eastern Star Old Ladies’ Home.
She’d let the battery on her Pope-Detroit Electric run down and went nowhere. So imagine my surprise to find her planted in the middle of our place. Whenever I’d called on her through the winter, she sat folded in one corner of her sofa in a flannel nightgown, looking wan. But on this particular day she was her old self and then some.
After an awkward pause she said, “Well, Blossom, I thought to return a call, as you have favored me with so many.” She tried to park her bony elbows easily on the table, but one slipped off. She was clearly keyed up. Her voice wobbled and trailed away.
I thought of making tea, but knew that Mama would only read it. So I waited the two of them out. Miss Dabney’s papa’s watch danced at her bosom. She was having palpitations, and I didn’t like her coloring beneath the face powder.
Mama muttered something, but it was neither clear nor polite.
Miss Dabney rummaged in her sleeve for a handkerchief she couldn’t find and then gave out a shuddering sigh. “Truthfully, Blossom, this is not a social call. I do not make them, as you know. It regards a . . . matter . . . that surpasses everything so far for pure wonder. Nothing supernatural! Oh no!” She put up a gloved hand as if to stop traffic. “We’ve surely had enough of that, no offense meant, dear. Something else has occurred. Something beyond my . . . wildest dreams.”
Even Mama paused to consider just how wild Miss Dabney’s dreams might be.
“Your mother—Madame Culp—visited me earlier in the day.”
I goggled at this. Mama had changed considerably, but not to the point of paying calls. She’d be taking on Alexander Armsworth’s mama next, I thought, and my flesh crept.
Miss Dabney warmed to her topic. “Madame . . . Culp is a very intuitive wom—lady, of course. And when she received a certain letter—by sea mail—from England, she brought it straight to me.”
“Well, Mama is no hand at reading,” I mentioned. Mama’s foot in a new shoe shot out and kicked me hard on the ankle.
Miss Dabney coughed delicately. “As Madame Culp knew that you and I are friends, she was kind enough to ask me to have a look at this letter. My interest in things English is well known.” Miss Dabney’s eyes had an unnatural shine to them. I still feared she might be having a stroke.
Stepping out of the range of Mama’s foot, I said, “But Madame Culp here can’t even read the word England, so how’d she know where the letter was mailed?”
“Ah, she did not need to read a word,” said Miss Dabney in a voice of gathering grandeur. Then she rummaged in her reticule, drawing out a square envelope of heavy cream paper. “The coat of arms upon this missive told the tale!” The envelope trembled in her grip. She couldn’t bear to part with it, though I saw at a distance it was addressed to me.
I stepped around behind Miss Dabney to see what a coat of arms is.
On the envelope flap a lion and a unicorn both on their hind legs were tussling together in a forest of curlicues above a Latin motto. Making no sense of this, I finally said, “Well, that is real artistic, no doubt about it.”
“Oh, Blossom,” said Miss Dabney, “poor benighted child, do you not know who this letter is from?” The feather fluttered on her hat like it had never left the bird. “It is from Queen Mary.”
And so it was.
* * *
I won’t disclose the exact contents, as the letter was personal to me. The truth was that it didn’t come straight from Queen Mary’s own hand. It was written under her command by one of her secretaries.
The wording was so dignified and English that Miss Dabney had to interpret most of it. Besides, the ink was badly blurred. She’d evidently read it over many times and wept tears of excitement all over the page.
The gist of it was this. In one of her castles Queen Mary had picked up an English newspaper that carried an account of my psychic experience. All England still mourned the loss of the great Titanic, so anything to do with it made news.
The Queen had been somewhat consoled that several high-placed persons of her acquaintance had been rescued. But this comfort turned to ashes in her mouth when she learned that Lady Beatrix Poindexter had saved herself, not to mention her jewelry, while leaving her own son on the Atlantic floor without a backward look, so to speak. Lady Beatrix had returned to England, puddling with hypocritical tears the whole way. And this same Lady Beatrix was a Lady in Waiting to Queen Mary!
I didn’t know if this was an astonishing coincidence or not. It might be that all the titled people in England know each other, something like the Odd Fellows club. Later I was to find out that this is somewhat true.
Queen Mary was “grieved and appalled” (I quote) that a lady holding such a favored position with herself was “so lacking in parental feelings and selflessness.” (I quote again.)
Evidently she challenged Lady Beatrix as to the particulars of my experience. Lady Beatrix denied everything and then screamed that she was cursed and damned to Hell, threw herself at the Queen’s feet, and carried on. The letter didn’t spell this out, but the meaning came through.
Queen Mary wound up by commending me as “an instrument of divine providence sent by an Agency not to be questioned, to rectify a great wrong.” My celebrity was well earned, Queen Mary declared, for I’d cared more for a small lost boy than his own “heartless maternal parent.” The Queen referred to me as a “young American friend of the British Way,” and said if ever I was to be anywhere near England, I would be welcome. King George sent his regards too.
Miss Dabney fell back in the chair. The reading took everything out of her. All she could add were disjointed phrases, like “Queen Mary, the Dear Soul of Goodness” and “To think I have lived to hold word of Royalty in my hand” and “This almost makes up for all I’ve been put through,” et cetera.
Mama was growing restless, always a dangerous sign. I wondered how we could wind up this visit. I wanted to get Miss Dabney home before one of her sinking spells. “Well,” said I, “it was civil of the Queen to drop me a line. I hope she kicked that Lady Beatrix down a long flight of stairs.”
“Bl
ossom, Blossom, you do not grasp the meaning of this letter.”
I thought I had mastered the main points of it, and said so.
“No, no. This is an invitation from the Royal Family. The very personages who hang in my back parlor. Blossom, think! A Royal invitation is a Royal command!”
Between Miss Spaulding and my mama, I figured I’d been commanded royally all my days. If the Queen of England was going to start on me, I wondered if life was worth living.
Miss Dabney’s mouth was pulled into its former foxy V shape, and she beamed at me through the incense smoke. In a voice from Grand Opera, she said, “You are going to England to visit the Royal Family. You, Blossom! A young American girl who has not had any”—her eye darted hastily around Mama’s murky tent, and she changed her tack—“has not had any such opportunity is going to make her curtsy like a proper English girl. Blossom, think!”
Her voice cracked in all directions like old pottery. “You are going to be presented at Court! And of course I shall accompany you and cover the expenses.”
This last information was mainly for Mama’s ears. But my mind was elsewhere. I wasn’t completely sure that the letter meant anything quite that definite. But Miss Dabney’s mind was speeding ahead like the Wabash Cannonball.
Mama slapped a hand with many rings on it down on the table. In a slurred snarl she said, “I can’t spare the kid. She’s good for business.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Miss Dabney, with her eyebrows at their highest.
“You heard me,” muttered Mama.
“I am confident we can come to an arrangement,” breathed Miss Dabney, horrified that this opportunity might slip away.
And I’m sure they did, though I never heard the exact figure.
Miss Dabney staggered to her feet. Her reticule and other small items rained down from her tall form. “Oh, Blossom, England! You have brought my fondest dream to fruition. I will die happy!”
I sincerely hoped she wouldn’t die on the spot. “So much to do. The planning! The steamship tickets! We must make haste! Punctuality is the courtesy of Kings. That is a well-known English saying, and they live by it!” et cetera.
She said more before reaching the door. But she didn’t pass through it before Mama called out in a voice as clear as a public orator. “That’ll be a buck and a half for this here one-time session.”
15
THE BLUFF CITY Pantagraph carried a full account of this latest bombshell. It drove everything but the hog-market report off the front page. A true copy of the Royal letter ran, flanked by a lion and a unicorn. American flags and Union Jacks flowed into four oval portraits. One was of Queen Mary, crowned. One was King George in his uniform. Beneath him was a shot of me far from flattering; it was a candid shot on a frizzy day for my hair. Underneath Queen Mary was a view of Miss Dabney. She sat for it in a new hat inspired by the lady above her. They were as alike as a pair of slippers.
Beneath my likeness was written:
LOCAL PSYCHIC WONDER CHILD SUMMONED TO EUROPEAN COURT
Under Miss Dabney’s was:
PROMINENT OLD SETTLER TO CHAPERONE CULP PRODIGY ON GRAND TOUR
Lowell Seaforth wrote the main article, exercising good taste throughout. Any reading between the lines was strictly up to the individual Pantagraph subscriber.
LOCAL NOTABLES RESPOND TO ROYAL COMMAND
Miss Blossom Culp, Horace Mann schoolgirl acclaimed for her psychic inclinations, will sail shortly from the port of New York for Europe. The daughter of Madame Culp, local clairvoyant, will embark on the RMS Olympic, sister ship of the ill-starred Titanic, source of Miss Culp’s repute.
Accompanying her will be Miss Gertrude Dabney, retiring member of local society. “For purposes of the journey,” Miss Dabney told this reporter, “Blossom will travel as my ward. This is something like an honorary niece. It is an English custom, one of several with which I am familiar.”
Completing the traveling party will be Alexander Armsworth, son of the prominent Joe Armsworths of Pine Street and brother of Lucille Armsworth Seaforth. His mother told this reporter, “An ocean voyage and travel in foreign parts will augment my boy’s education. Mixing with persons of a social rank far above any in Bluff City will knock some of the rough edges off him. Miss Dabney has been gracious enough to include him in the sailing party, at our expense, naturally.”
In London, England, the party will put up at Brown’s Hotel to await further Royal word. Mrs. Joe Armsworth begs to inform any who may wish to transmit marconigrams or other messages of bon voyage to the travelers that they will make the ocean crossing in First Class accommodations.
Being Seaforth’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Armsworth heard tell of the famous Queen Mary letter before the Pantagraph set it in type. She hastened to batter down Miss Dabney’s door to get Alexander in on our England trip. This is the same woman who’d always been loudest in branding Miss Dabney “crazy as a coot.” But now she was eating crow.
I doubt she had much trouble getting her way. It was an entertainment of Miss Dabney’s to promote a romance between me and Alexander, though she only mentioned to me that he’d be useful in hauling luggage around.
Late in her life Miss Dabney was discovered by all the ladies of Bluff City’s upper crust. She was suddenly invited to join the Daughters of the American Revolution club. This “turned her stomach,” she said. The Daughters seemed not to know that she still rooted for the English to win in that particular war.
Mrs. Shambaugh left a calling card on her. Alexander’s mama left several notes pleading to give her, me, and Alexander a bon voyage party to see us off.
“I suppose we must let the Armsworth person have her party, though she is almost unbearably pushy,” sighed Miss Dabney. “Only mention Royalty to American backwoods types, and they are on their knees. The irony of this is intense.
“But remember, Blossom, if you grow up to marry young Alexander, you will have that Armsworth woman as a mother-in-law. Consider carefully before you commit yourself.” Her eyes narrowed with mischief, as if she’d like to throw a wrench into Mrs. Armsworth’s party. Alexander’s mama’s parties are not hard to ruin. They’re disasters to start with.
Miss Dabney turned to other concerns. She’d sent off to Nugent’s Department Store in St. Louis to outfit us for our trip. For herself she ordered several English tweed suits, for strolling on boat decks. She also sent for a gnarled cane “for country walks.” This stumped me because I thought London was quite a built-up area. She also laid in several Mosher skirts, Gibson blouses, and quite an impressive turnout in Utrecht cut velvet to wear at the Royal Court. If we never made it as far as the Royal Court, I feared for her sanity. “I hope Queen Mary will not be in powder blue, for I will be,” she remarked. She returned to humming the British national anthem.
For me she ordered six changes, some nautical, and others with flounces enough to stun Letty Shambaugh. She also had Nugent’s send me a Princess dress. This number had whalebone running up the spine, forcing its wearer to assume a regal posture, sitting or standing. “Though you may be tempted to slump,” she said, “your dress won’t be.”
The day our tickets came by mail from the White Star Line at number 9 Broadway in New York City, Miss Dabney was sick to her stomach with joy. We passed several happy afternoons in her back parlor in a swamp of Nugent’s tissue paper. The sight of her excited as a child made even such a practical person as myself sentimental.
Alexander was half off his head at the prospect of crossing the Atlantic on the biggest steamship still afloat. Not to mention missing all the school time.
Miss Spaulding had had about enough of me for one school year and nearly said so when she gave me her blessing for taking the time off. She loaded Alexander and me down with a ream of homework to do on shipboard. This was wishful thinking, and she knew it.
As for me, I was ready for a change of scene as I usually am. There’s roaming in my blood, from both sides of the family. Besides, I’d tired of being a public
monument in a small place like Bluff City. It had taken away such innocent pleasures of the past as tricking myself out as the ghost in Old Man Leverette’s privy. I sometimes thought I’d been robbed of my youth.
We were to leave directly from the bon voyage party. The night train connected at Mattoon for the through train to New York on the Pennsylvania Line. By the evening of our leave-taking, I was worn to a frazzle from anticipation and keeping watch over Mama. She eyed my new clothes with calculation. She was now far too well-off to think of selling them, but old habits die hard. I kept my new steamer trunk locked and slept with the key on a chain around my neck. The purpose of my journey seemed to mean nothing to Mama. The only kings and queens that cut any ice with her are in a deck of cards.
I was to wear my new Princess dress to the Armsworths’ party, to give it a rehearsal. Just at twilight the men came to take my trunk to the depot. I set out soon after in all my new elegance for the walk up to the Armsworths’ mansion. Mama didn’t so much as bid me good-bye. But that is Mama to a T.
As I stepped over the trolley tracks in my new gun-metal-gray kid shoes with pearl buttons to the ankle, I recollected earlier times such as back when I’d come home daily across these selfsame tracks in a pair of cardboard boots with the heels down to nubs. And of course I thought of Julian, whose death brought on these many changes.
I lingered on the very spot where I’d first seen him. In the old days I might have kicked around in the gravel to look for evidence left from his manifestation. But now my shoes were worth keeping nice. They pinched my toes as I limped on up the hill to where the Armsworth mansion glowed from every window against a starlit evening.
As will happen at the Armsworths’ parties, only a minority of the invited showed up. Still, a good turnout came to see how an ugly duckling like myself might be turned into a swan suitable for floating in a Royal moat. And they came to gawk at Miss Dabney, who was usually observed only from a distance.
